


The two kings of Baker Street and their princess

by Wolffangirl33



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Bisexual John Watson, Bottom John Watson, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Comedy, Deduction, Detective, Doctor - Freeform, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Funny, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnsexual Sherlock, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, SOLDIER - Freeform, Smut, Top John, Top Sherlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27673625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolffangirl33/pseuds/Wolffangirl33
Summary: ONHOLDThis BBC Sherlock [Johnlock] fanfiction is set after season 4 when the three of them live together at Baker Street.Contains adorable chapters about how Sherlock deals with Rosie; funny, cute chapters about their everyday life; chapters in which John's and Sherlock's love will slowly build up...; and chapters filled with fluffy, smutty Johnlock stuff.These are short stories, but not one-shots because every chapter is in connection with the other ones.
Relationships: Mrs. Hudson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson & Rosamund Mary "Rosie" Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 10
Kudos: 53





	1. N̶e̶v̶e̶r̶ give the gun to the kid

John was still working, and the minutes seemed to pass by slower than when Sherlock had to listen to Mycroft's incessant, monotonous, endless speeches. His brother was simply boring, he could ignore the English government's head as if he was only a buzzing fly, but dealing with Rosie was nothing less than annoying. She always had more energy than Sherlock had when it came to murders and cases, and this statement spoke for itself.

"Gimme that!" The little girl's lisping demand didn't let Sherlock have a second of peace. Rosie was just like her parents, obstinate, intractable, but unlike John or Mary, she knew how to use the puppy-eyes, with those ocean-like gems of irises, and pouted little lips the kid usually got what she wanted.

"Look, I would but if by some really unfortunate circumstances your dad would become aware of that I did, he'd doubtlessly try to kill me. The thought of that is unpleasant, isn't it?" Surprisingly most of the time it was possible to distract or convince Rosie by argumentation, she was pretty clever for her age.

"But-I-want-that!" she tried to jump and lay those little fingers on the gun, which Sherlock was holding high above, even for John it would be a fair task to acquire the gun, or not. John would firstly hit him in the guts, then grab his arm and use a simple judo move, Sherlock'd meet painfully with the floor within three seconds. "And then pew, pew!"

"I know you are clever, so please consider everything about the consequences of your request and rethink what you do ask for," Sherlock tried to ask her as politely as it was manageable, but sighed tiredly as he looked at the gun.

He understood a few of John's reasons why Rosie couldn't get the gun, but Sherlock could argue with that: 'It's too dangerous' John told him, conclusion: learning how to use it in a young age has several benefits, later it wouldn't cause any trouble to shot. 'Kids doesn't need to know how to use weapons', of course, they do, especially Rosie, their life was never free from danger, and guns useful if it comes to self-defence, or to incapacitate a criminal... etcetera, etcetera. One of Sherlock's favourite reasons was that shooting at things, specifically at the painted smiley on the wall is very relaxing, calming.

"Uhm, I don't want you dead..." the blue eyes started to fill with tears as Rosie stopped jumping and looked up at the tall man. The frown on Sherlock's face sharpened as he quickly ran through the possible solutions to the situation. "I love you!" in one second a little girl was glued on the detective's left leg; the grip of little arms tightened.

"Don't worry, your dad would never kill me, I can assure you."

Rosie pulled away, the locks of blond hair flew around her shoulders, the tears shone as a smile pulled onto those lips. Clever, manipulative child. "Then can I get th-"

"No." Sherlock would honestly be glad to present right now how much shooting bullets into the wall was calming, but he doubted John would be delighted.


	2. Obscene words are n̶o̶t̶ for children

Rays of sunlight drew golden beams into the air, dust danced inside the light; Rosie played with her dolls, the hair glow brightly like as it was a glory around the little girl’s head.

"She is so damn perfect," John said between two bites of his slightly blackened toast.

Sherlock tried to make him breakfast; it was ridiculous how hard cooking and baking was compared to his scientific experiments. He surely knew that that piece of burn bread had a bitter, unpleasant taste, but John didn’t protest when he put down the plate, the doctor only gave Sherlock a disbeliever, funny look.

"She is not bad, her deduction skills are pretty fascinating for her age," the black curls shook as the man nodded in agreement.

"For God’s sake Sherlock! She is only three years old!" John snapped but smiled proudly at his playing daughter.

Rosie hummed the melody of one of Sherlock’s violin tunes, but abruptly stopped; a loud thud followed. "No! Buby fell down!" The little plastic princess was accidentally knocked down from the table as she was spilling the unexisting tea from the pot to the little cups of the plush animals, dolls and figures. Both John and Sherlock were invited to the child’s tea party.

John’s posture tensed immediately, while Sherlock cocked his head to the side and watched as the wave of worry flew through on the blond man’s expression; he always liked to look at the other, although he liked to watch, to study John’s reactions, the man was still a complete mystery sometimes even for Sherlock Holmes.

"Fuck it!" Rosie swore despairingly, angrily.

Hearing these words next to each other from the kid with that high-pitched voice was sudden and funny, but Sherlock didn’t pay any further attention, not like John whose mouth hung open, his jaw dropped. It was interesting how fastly switched a human’s emotions.

The little girl ran toward them holding the broken figure in her hands before she stopped and extended her arms to John who seemed to just come back from the shock of those two innocent words.

"Daddy, please fix her!" her eyes were just as beautiful as John’s, she looked like an angel.

Sherlock only became aware that it was his time to leave when te question was out:

"All right Honey, but please tell me who taught you that." Anybody would believe that the smile that crept onto John’s lips was kind, full of caring and love. But Sherlock sensed the danger, he knew that expression, the twitch of the blond eyebrows, the predatory look when those hazel eyes flashed at Sherlock for a second.

The dark-haired man slowly stood up and started his way toward the door. "Sherlock Holmes, stay right there where you are!" It was a dilemma, obey or run? Sherlock eventually chose the first option, because he knew John would find the opportunity to catch him, and if he stays now, with Rosie’s presence his chances were better to not to end up grounded… When did John become this dominant in their so-called-relationship? Sherlock was always the leader and John was his soldier who followed him into any danger he pointed his finger at, but those times were a while ago.

"You mean ’fuck’?" she asked that as innocently that even Sherlock almost started to doubt that Rosie knew the meaning of those words; and of course, she knew. Everybody must admit the little devil in angel costume knew what she was doing, it was honestly brilliant, how she could influence people around her. Sherlock could use that in crime-solving…

"Yes, who taught you that?"

"I can’t tell you," the blondness flew around as she shook her head and pouted her mouth looking like she regretted that she had to keep a secret from her father; obviously Rosie didn’t felt guilty at all. "I don’t want anybody to die…" Sherlock almost let out a laugh but he stopped himself just in time.

"Okay," John sighed, fortunately, he was still tired in this early hour and wasn’t in the mood to interrogate. "You need to listen, okay? These are bad words, you can’t use them anytime so rather don’t use them at all."

"Okay Daddy, don’t be mad."

"I am not, nobody is going to end up dead, not yet—" he gave a knowing look to Sherlock, it spoke for itself, contained everything John would tell him if Rosie wasn’t around; ’you bastard’; ’you are dead’; ’if you dare to run—’; …etcetera. "Now go back, you need to host a tea party."

"You need to come soon!"

As soon as Rosie was outside of the kitchen John turned to Sherlock with his whole body, that was never a good sign. "Did you teach her that?" Obvious, predictable question, and yet, Sherlock wasn’t exactly sure how to answer.

"You know John, at this age children are not taught but they lear—" Sherlock began slowly. The blond eyebrows pulled closer, John pressed his lips into a thin, sharp, angry line, the corner of his mouth twitched, he always did this when, as he said ’Sherlock did something unbelievably stupid’. However, the man thought learning one more brilliant word of the English language wasn’t a bad thing, at least this way Rosie will be able to clearly say piss off to anybody by using a colourful, variant vocabulary.

"Did you?!"

"There is slightly a chance that she heard that from me…" Sherlock shut his mouth and looked right into those thunder-like eyes. "Yes—"

"Come on! What next, a gun?!"


	3. Blaming it on one’s heart

Sherlock was thinking as always, but lately, only one thought was roaming around in his mind: _John Watson_. Sometimes it happened day by day but eventually, everything came back to the organized order he kept in his brain (almost always), everything clicked into place. Not this time though, the problem didn’t seem to vanish, fade away, didn’t matter how hard he tried. This situation was a complete disaster because the man had been able to always rely on his mind, he had a place where most of the time everything stood in an ordered row, but now, he opened a door and he always found the same thing behind it; his only _friend_.

There was a time when John would face any kind of danger by his side, they solved the most ridiculous, perilous cases together. The blond man was his personal soldier, doctor and Sherlock was his leader; he got used to it easier than to any change in his whole life; soon he liked it, that he could point his fingers at any danger ahead and they would run toward together. Back then their situation was usual, it became a habit, they both needed it, needed each other.

But then it was gone, firstly when he faked his death, he had lost John. He had couldn’t understand human emotions, that what he did wasn’t right, it was _cruel_. He knew that since Mary’s death, how much losing somebody ruins other’s life. John may have forgotten him for what he’d done but the trust was never the same between them again. Of course, their relationship slowly built back up, but it was like the broken pieces had been gathered and duck taped together; never that stable, that _beautiful_ ever again. Also, he had lost John again when he married Mary, but Sherlock didn’t mind it because his only friend seemed happy after the grief what he caused, but then his wife was gone and the doctor ran away again and hardly found his way back to Baker Street where they both belonged. Now all _three_ of them belonged there.

Sherlock’s mind always was fast as lightning, sometimes even he could barely follow the rushing deductions, conclusion, solutions. But this case… what case exactly? What was all of this about? Obviously, John, but how exactly?

Years ago they needed each other, but what if now Sherlock yearned for John’s presence, his _attention_ more than the man did need the detective?

He did understand the reasons, the causes, he could even imagine what ran through John’s head, but he didn’t understand his own feeling, needs, demands. Usually, he stabbed down what he couldn’t solve, but he couldn’t cut out his own heart.

 _Heart_. How ridiculous, how human, how sentimental that he blames it on his heart. Feelings, needs, impressions, demands, emotions have nothing to do with it.

Caring, affection, attention, _love_ …

He has betrayed the only man he ever cared for, and yet he wanted him back as if nothing ever has happened, as if nothing changed. But they couldn’t pretend, John was a bad liar anyway, acting stood far from him as well. And did Sherlock even has the right to want him back after what he has done to John?

John said he wanted to be the man who Mary thought he was, and Sherlock wanted to be the man John used to believe he was: brilliant; amazing; clever; intelligent; fascinating etcetera… but the most important of all, he wanted to be as good as a friend as the other was for him. The detective always despised everybody, especially Anderson, and he must admit John wasn’t the most glamorous mind, but Sherlock never met anybody else that caring, loving, brave, amazing as he was.

John was there. Sherlock had him, and yet, he wished for _more_ … He didn’t know why, or how exactly could he get more of his doctor other than solving cases together again.

He was ripped out of his track of thoughts by John’s voice, "I am home!"

"Daddy, daddy!" Rosie jumped around his father; Sherlock didn’t move he stayed crouched in his armchair, his palms pressed together, jaw rested on top of his fingers as usually when he was deep in thoughts. The light eyes trailed up and down on the man who just hung his coat up, drinking in every detail he could. Being able to read one’s whole day by a look is a blessing… He held his hands as people who prayed, Sherlock wasn’t religious, but maybe this once he actually wished for something, and if he would believe in God, he would ask to be able to understand human emotions as easy as he could read apparent things.

"Oh, hey honey, how was your day with Sherlock?"

"We went out, he buyed me—

"Bought," Sherlock corrected, he didn’t even hear himself speak, pointing out one’s mistakes was a reflex for him, his thoughts were still waving angrily, roughly inside his head as emotions like a storm whirled them.

"…bought me a chocolate cake for lunch!" Rosie hopped around with her ear-to-ear smile that shone with happiness and deficient dentil. "And then we went to this fancy place and I solved a case!" she screamed proudly pointing her little finger at her chest and threw those golden locks of hair behind her shoulders. "It was the tie! Everything was written on the tie!" the little girl sang as she quickly ran to the table and tried to grab John’s laptop, but almost dropped the machine every time she tried to lift it.

"What do you want with my laptop?" John asked and hurried forward; Sherlock watched him.

"Daddy, you must write about it and tell people I solved it!" she demanded zealously.

"Okay, I will. I promise."

"I am going to tell Mrs H. how I unveiled the Evil! And Sherlock is going to tell you!" before the man would be able to protest or react anything at all the little girl was out of the door, singing, "Tricky tie, tricky, tricky, tricky tie…"

Sherlock blinked at the slamming door for a second; oh, Rosie left, ergo his little innocent shield, what usually protected him from John’s anger left… There it comes, "You were supposed to keep her safe! Not taking her to solve cases with you! She was in danger!"

"You are overreacting, it w—"

"Overreacting?" John’s voice was cold, for a second sounded calm, but Sherlock knew he just fought down anger for a minute, eventually, he always lost the fight when it came to Rosie’s safety. "Oh, I am Sherlock Holmes the king of deductions, before we start let me introduce my flatmate’s three years old daughter. And now, shall we begin?" he huffed, eyes staring at the man who slowly lowered his hands, till his palms were against the armrests.

"I don’t speak like that," _I never refer to you as if you were only a flatmate._

"Seriously Sherlock, that’s all?" John frowned, teeth clenched; the lighter blue eyes watched as the other’s chest raised with every breath, as his cheeks flushed from anger, the contrast between his darkish eyes and his light skin. He had no idea why, he never paid attention to anyone’s appearance, but he liked to look at John; his mind easily trailed off when he was around the man, otherwise losing his concentration happened only on rare occasions.

"I assure you there was no potential danger and she did well, surprisingly. She needed seventeen minutes to—"

"Bloody Hell Sherlock! I don’t care about the case and stupid deductions!" John yelled, but the twitch of his lips, the soft change in his expression, and as he let his shoulders down didn’t avoid Sherlock’s attention.

"You are proud," he shared the obvious with John.

The storming eyes gave him an angry look, the bluish eyes kept staring at the man in the armchair, and all Sherlock had to do was waiting.

"Of course I am! She is fucking brilliant like you…!" he snapped, but wasn’t angry anymore. Both men turned toward the opening door to see the little angel.

"I heard yelling," she stated with pouted lips, a smile was immediately appearing on John’s face.

"No, we were just discussing loudly."

"Hm…" the shining eyes narrowed and looked at Sherlock, then back at John and Rosie repeated the process three times, but eventually she shrugged and turned to walk away. "Fucking brilliant, fuck, fuck, fuck…" they heard the singing again.

The black curls shook as the man straightened in the armchair and let the biggest grin creep onto his expression.

"No, not again…" John groaned tiredly.

"I told you. You don’t teach them, they learn, like it or not."

It worth it, Sherlock thought as John’s lips pulled onto an honest smile. Rosie was not bad, but she wasn’t John. Seeing his friend happy worth everything, it was like a small victory, he got John back piece by piece but that was progress. The blond man was busy with work and Rosie, usually tired, he didn’t remain energy for cases, always just blogged about the ones Sherlock solved _alone_.

Conclusion: Sherlock had to take care of John being well-rested so he won’t complain and also needed to pass Rosie to somebody. The second wasn’t hard, but the first; they got two bedrooms and a living room, John didn’t have any privacy in his room and always had to get up every time Rosie did, also Sherlock knew that he had nightmares time by time…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you would like to read a chapter about any situation! I already got a request to write about what if Rosie lays her little hands on one of the guns :3
> 
> Thanks for all the kudos and comments you left, they literally give me the energy to continue this story (^^)


	4. The cause of those feelings

John has had a date.

It was unexpected and sudden how quickly this simple, ordinary fact whipped down at Sherlock; and he got _confused_. One question kept bouncing in his mind restlessly, it spoke about pure, simple emotions, and he couldn’t understand John, nor himself. _Why Rosie and Sherlock were not enough for him?_ He wanted to find answers as soon as the other man announced that he had programs for the night, but he had more important things to do before he could make any deduction, he had to make sure John won’t get away again.

Maybe Sherlock thought that another way the doctor would only hurt again – that was the less selfish reason. Honestly, he just couldn’t stand the thought of John leaving him alone in Baker Street as he had done when he moved in with Mary. Nor a new woman, nor a man, nor anybody fitted into the picture that floated in front of Sherlock’s eyes, what depicted John as his and Rosie’s, maybe Mrs Hudson could be around too.

Fortunately, as it turned out, Rosie was able to be a horrible, ill-mannered, indelicate kid if she was asked nicely and bribed with chocolate cakes. So they got rid of that incommodious female. Now that the danger was temporarily staved off Sherlock had nothing that could distract his net of thoughts braided around the centre, the main question: why must John date? Was it really necessary for other human beings? Why was it a must for John, when his life was excellent with the company of Sherlock and Rosie, sometimes Mrs Hudson, Mycroft and George— Greg? Obviously, he did it some time ago and it didn’t bother the detective but things had changed since then, Sherlock’s _feelings_ had changed.

Since he met John all the previously unexperienced human emotions found their way into Sherlock’s skull, at least most of them, like caring, worrying, regretting… But _jealousy_? This was new, he never felt this way, not when he saw what Mycroft had reached, not when he lost a deduction-game between the two of them. This was something he couldn’t quite put his fingers on, but now he didn’t want to watch John broke again, he couldn’t let down John again; not acceptable to fail him again; no need to let John fall in _love_ again with somebody not worthy.

His plans didn’t go well either about getting John back, he refused to sleep on the couch and leave Rosie alone upstairs, Sherlock even offered him to sleep in his bed, but that idea seemed to scare away the doctor even more who seemed more and more exhausted day by day. Sherlock even wrote a list of the advantages to try to influence John by reasons, but he didn’t listen, what is more, he looked haunted for a second before his expression changed to rather angry. _Interesting_. Animals instinctually protect their vulnerable parts, mostly their neck, and a lot of people don’t know but humans do it too when they feel threatened, nervous, anxious, they usually rub their neck with their palm; trying to cover it from the other, who they think means danger to them. John did it too when he offered him the couch or his bed, but why? If John would be sleeping downstairs, Sherlock would be able to wake him from the nightmares, but this way the detective had to listen to the creak of the bed above, that was caused by the doctor’s restless, panicked turnovers. Luckily, Rosie slept very deep and rarely happened anything that was able to wake her.

The street lamps turned on outside as darkness of the night fell over London’s streets, John was upstairs trying to put Rosie into bed. Sherlock was listening to every creak of the floor trying to detect what they were doing and when will the blond head appear in the door. The man was prepared to try to convince his flatmate again, it was late, John was tired, he had nightmares last night and the night before… People usually gave up protesting easier when they were on the edge, not John Watson thought, but it worth a try.

Finally, the voice of the stairs sounded what meant John was coming down.

"Oh my…" he groaned as he shut the door behind him, then walked toward his armchair and collapsed into the familiar, comforting embrace of the furniture. "I had to read six bedtime stories. Six! Do you know when she is supposed to drift off?" Sherlock only let his eyes take in the whole view, stopping by every detail what could tell him anything he might want to know. "In the first half of the first one! Not after the sixth!"

To be honest, his skills sometimes were more annoying than helpful, knowing random, unnecessary pieces of information about anything he looked at can be distracting, so he learned to delete everything he thought he won’t need. He never deleted anything in connection with John Watson, Sherlock even learned about the solar system, because of his friend.

"How is that she is always asleep in ten minutes when you read her stories?" John’s eyelashes soon were resting against his cheeks, he let his head fall back, baring his neck to Sherlock, whose eyes immediately focused on the new view. How could he act this comfortable now, and why had been freaked out when he suggested that he could sleep downstairs? Did he think they would sleep together? Maybe, but Sherlock didn’t get to that part to discuss it with John who didn’t let him finish his little speech. He liked to watch John, and for a moment he wondered how would it feel to _touch_. "What kind of stories you tell her?"

"Obviously more calming ones than you do," Sherlock’s frown deepened as John sighed and leaned forward, elbows resting on his thighs, his gaze caught on the heart nearby, it was quite fascinating how his irises had always a different colour, brown like the dirt under his feet what always offered clues when he needed, or darkish blue like the ocean what always moved restlessly, _beautifully_ and had the power to destruct.

"What?"

"Now we are halfway in Blink by Malcolm Gladwell," he answered. It wasn’t a bad book, contained a lot of interesting concepts that stood in contradiction with other parts of the book. A lot to criticize, analyze and correct that meant it was perfect material for teaching Rosie.

"In wha… Nevermind, until it works I don’t care."

Sherlock wanted to ask again if John would like to sleep down, but he was sure it wouldn’t be easy to find the right words and he didn’t want to upset the blond man who rested in his armchair, where he belonged as a sculpture. Firstly maybe seemed to be ordinary, but John Watson was anything but that.


End file.
